


Mutual Confessions

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: American AU, F/F, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, johnlock au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*title is completely temporary; I'm just having trouble coming up with a good title*</p><p>Sherlock and Irene have been keeping a pretty massive secret from each other. When Irene is the first to admit that she's gay, it turns out that Sherlock is too.</p><p>Single for the first time in years and struggling to balance time at the lab and time with his kids, now limited thanks to the joint custody situation, Sherlock meets John Watson, an ex army doctor who's still got some demons to fight. Irene runs into Janine, a quick-witted intern at a law firm.</p><p>Also contains dashes of cute Mollstrade, with cameos by Mycroft, Harry, and Clara.</p><p>—</p><p>“You like John,” Alice stated.</p><p>“I said no such thing.”</p><p>“Your eyes did. You looked at him like he was the best thing ever, better than your mold experiment.”</p><p>“Nothing is better than my mold experiment,” lied Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Gay Too

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> So I was faffing around on YouTube the other day and came across [this video/article](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/07/14/oprah-show-guest-christine-jacki-marriage_n_5584480.html) and _immediately_ thought of Johnlock.
> 
> Hope you like it! I know this is an unusual AU, but I thought I'd play around with it and see if anyone's interested.

Irene Adler had expected any number of reactions from Molly when she’d called on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. Shock, hurried reassurances of support, concern about her marriage. There was even the potential for judgment and prejudice, though Irene suspected not.

What she got, however, was a shriek that lasted nearly half a minute.

Wincing, she held the phone away from her ear and shut the refrigerator door with her hip. “Molls? You okay?”

“Oh, you – you’ve finally figured it out, then – I’m so pleased for you, ‘Rene, I really am –”

Irene paused, then reached for a ziplock bag. “Excuse me, ‘finally’?”

“Greg and I had bets on when you’d realize –”

“Hold on. _Finally?_ ”

“It’s been _obvious,_ hasn’t it?”

The kids started wailing before Irene could reply. “Alice and Wyatt!” she shouted, storming into the playroom, where they were mid-scuffle. She swooped down and grabbed the point of contention – currently, a Lego set that she’d _told_ her mum not to buy them for Christmas. “Right, that’s it. Al, go to your room. Wyatt, get in here and help me pack your lunch – no grumbling, I don’t care, you’re on my last nerve. Go.”

“You could be a bit nicer,” Molly said keenly.

Irene groaned and leaned against the cupboard for a moment to collect herself. “They’ve been absolute _nightmares_ since Sherlock left for England.”

“We could babysit,” Molly offered.

Irene thought for a minute. The kids did have a certain fondness for Greg, after all, and he was a bit like a scruffy old teddy bear even when he was cross with them. “I might take you up on that. Wyatt, honey, that’s for dinner, don’t get your – oh, for God’s sake.” She wrestled the tapenade out of his grip; why a nine-year-old even _liked_ tapenade was beyond her, but he no doubt got it from his father, who she was fairly certain had been born a pretentious 35-year-old.

“Speaking of Sherlock...”

“I know. Christ.” She scrubbed a hand across her face. “Wyatt, the baby carrots are in the bottom drawer of the fridge.”

“Are you going to tell him? How long have you, you know. Been sure?”

“Five years. Into our perfect, white-picket-fence, 2.5 children marriage,” she added woefully.

“Will he be heartbroken, do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you talking about Dad?” Wyatt piped up, busily shoving carrots into a tupperware container.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie,” Irene said quickly, remembering that she had an audience. “Listen, Moll – I’ll text you, alright?”

“Good luck with the little monsters.”

“Thanks. Love you.”

Irene hung up and watched as Wyatt started rummaging around for the crackers, black curls bobbing around his head.

She was so in for it.

+

**I am screwed.**

You’re sure about this, aren’t you?

**Yes. I am. I know I am, I just...don’t want to break Sherlock’s heart. He’s such a good guy, and we’ve always got along so well, it’s only that...well, it’s more of a partnership, at this point. I love him.**

I know you do. But there’s nothing there anymore?

**Just platonic. It’s not like I’m /miserable/ with him, or anything. It just...is.**

I’m sure he’ll be supportive

**Or he’ll tell Mycroft to deport me and I’ll never see my kids again.**

Mycroft scares me

**He scares everyone.**

**I don’t know what to do.**

Tell him!! When does he come back?

**Tonight. Thank god. He’ll impose order on Alice, at least. She adores him.**

I think you should tell him

**I can’t, not tonight!**

Why not? It’s like ripping off a bandaid, isn’t it?

**What if he’s seriously hurt? He would be, wouldn’t he?**

You never know! 

**He’s my best friend, Molls.**

I know, I know. You don’t want to lose your husband AND your best friend

But if you think about it, he’d be angrier if you kept it a secret. Honesty is the best policy, right??

**I suppose you’re right.**

Please tell him. You can come stay with us!!

**Only if the two of you stop having eye sex every time I’m around.**

Shut up

We don’t.

**You do. You so do.**

Stop it!! You WILL tell him tonight

Or else

**Or else what?**

I’ll think of something.

**Fine. I’ll let you know how it goes.**

+

“Asleep?” Irene asked hopefully.

“In the process of,” Sherlock replied, going to the tap and filling a glass with water. He looked rather worse for wear, his hair gone slightly limp and exhaustion lining his eyes. “Wyatt’s still up reading, but I haven’t the strength to fight it.”

“Welcome to my past two weeks in hell.”

“I have missed you.”

“Me too.”

He came over and planted a kiss on her head. “I apologize for being away for so long. If I’d had any idea...”

“You still would’ve gone,” Irene pointed out.

“Touché.”

They both laughed quietly.

“You said you needed to speak with me?”

Shit. Shit shit shit. She really couldn’t do this, not now. It was better in the morning. Yeah. “Oh, I... did you deduce anything interesting about the flight attendant?”

“Irene, if you are going to ‘beat around the bush,’ as I believe the saying goes, then I’m going to bed. I am rather sleep-deprived.”

Screw it. “Fine. Sherlock.” She paused. “Maybe you should sit down.”

He raised an eyebrow. “This sounds dire.”

“It is, a bit.”

“Is this about the fingers? Because I’ve kept them in the containment hood you bought me on our anniversary, and they’re quite necessary for –”

“No, no it’s not that.”

He joined her on the couch and folded his hands cautiously. “What is it, then?”

This was it. God, if he couldn’t handle this, Irene was going to kill Molly. “Sherlock, I’m... gay.” She sucked in a breath. There it was.

His brow knotted for a moment, and he appeared briefly startled, then leaned back. “Oh.” Surprise number two of the day. Sherlock was not an emotional man by nature, but Irene had still anticipated a stronger reaction than _that_. She pushed forth,

“I’m so sorry for deceiving you, I just needed to be sure, and I hadn’t – I’ve known for a long time, but I just – you’re so intelligent and strangely sweet at times and I simply –”

“It’s fine, Irene,” Sherlock cut in. Did he look _relieved?_

“Is it? I don’t...”

He placed a hand on her knee. “We’ll get through this.”

“Except it’s not something that we can _get_ through, it’s who I am and I can’t be with you when you –”

Sherlock spoke a little louder. “No, Irene. We’ll get through this, because... I’m gay too.”


	2. Braiding Hair and Build-A-Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John struggles to braid his niece's hair and Sherlock's daughter knows more than she probably should.
> 
> —
> 
> _“You like John,” Alice stated.  
>  “I said no such thing.”  
> “Your eyes did. You looked at him like he was the best thing ever, better than your mold experiment.”  
> “Nothing is better than my mold experiment,” lied Sherlock.  
> “You’re lying.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who got a 99 on their chem midyear exam! Guess my daily 9-hour study sessions paid off :)
> 
> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> PS I started creative writing yesterday and I'm concerned I came across braggy when I talked about my fanfic, so hopefully my teacher doesn't now think I'm very cocky. I'm not, I'm just overly enthusiastic.
> 
> PPS I'm experiencing the blizzard right now, so what better time to take a break from college supplements and schoolwork to post some gay fanfiction?
> 
> PPPS I also got a $20k scholarship to a lovely private college - was NOT expecting that, but I'm feeling good. Unfortunately their invitations to apply to various honors programs came less than a week before they're due, so I'm slaving away on four supplement essays currently, with some good fanfic breaks in between.

_6 months later_

“So,” said Sherlock, peering at Alice in the rearview mirror, “was your day satisfactory?”

She looked at him dolefully and stuck her thumb in her mouth. “No.”

“You are six years old. What have your mother and I told you about sucking your thumb? Did you read the pamphlet I procured for you on –”

“Daddy, I’m _six,_ ” she said plaintively.

“Precisely. Which is why it’s frankly absurd that you are still engaging in such an infantile behavior.”

“I don’t feel like reading the words on the pamphlet. I only like reading grown up writing when it’s in your college textbooks.” She paused, then added, “I made an origami frog out of it. Do you want to see?”

Sherlock sighed. “No.”

“I worked really, _really_ hard on it, Daddy.”

“Not now. Now is not a good time. I’m going to –”

“The lab, I know.” She removed her thumb from her mouth and gazed out the window. “You’re always at the lab.”

“Would you prefer I not go to work?”

“I don’t like it when you’re gone.”

He softened a little and turned around to smile at his daughter. “I know. I apologize.”

“I never see you anymore anyway, because Mommy has us during the week.”

“It’s better this way, Alice.”

“Can you promise it won’t get worse?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean... promise you won’t get me and Wyatt babysitters every night when we get to see you. Wyatt gets sad too. He just doesn’t tell you because you always yell at us for distracting you when you’re doing a case.”

Something that heavily resembled guilt passed over Sherlock. He loved his children, he really did. And though his marriage didn’t work out quite as expected, he did not regret a moment of it. “What’s the name of that ridiculous place at which your friends have been hosting so many birthday parties?”

Alice eyed him suspiciously. “Build-A-Bear.”

“Would you like me to take you there this weekend?”

Her face lit up and she let out a high-pitched squeal, nearly throwing herself out of her car seat in enthusiasm.

“I take that as a yes.”

“You’re the best daddy ever,” she said. “I love you.”

He smiled as the light turned green and reached back to pat her on the knee. “I love you too, Al.”

+

John wasn’t all too thrilled when Harry asked him to look after little Sophie. She’d just turned six, and he didn’t consider himself particularly fit for dealing with a kindergarten girl.

However, Harry needed this more than anything. A break, time to convalesce, a second chance at recovery. And, with Clara gone, he was the next best thing to a babysitter.

“Come on, Soph,” he called, holding out his hand as Sophie skipped towards him, pigtails flapping.

“Can we go to Build-A-Bear for Eloise’s birthday? Please?” she implored.

“I... what _is_ that?”

“You get to make your own bears and you put the heart in and they pump it full of fluff and you can buy it outfits and it’s the _best_ thing on the _planet_ and I really want to go –”

Knowing he would most likely balk at the price and have to undergo the torture of chaperoning, John sighed. “Yes.” Oh the sacrifices of a reluctant uncle.

She threw her arms around his neck, jumping up and down ecstatically. “ _Thank_ you!”

“No problem.” He checked his phone. “We’re running late, come on.”

They’d walked about three feet when Sophie stopped still. “My hair came out of my braids,” she announced. “You have to fix it!”

“I don’t know how to braid.”

She gaped at him as if he’d grown another head. “How do you not know how to braid? Everyone knows how to braid. _I_ know how to braid.”

“Why don’t you braid it yourself, then? Hurry up,” he said, trying to nudge her down the sidewalk, but she had planted her feet on the ground, arms crossed.

“I want you to braid my hair.”

“I don’t know _how_ –”

“Look it up on your phone!”

“Are you serious? Sophie, we’re on a schedule.”

“I _need_ my hair braided, Uncle John. I _need_ it, you don’t understand.”

“I... for god’s sake.” John reached into his pocket. “If I’m doing this for you, you need to move.”

“No,” she said.

“Sophie Elizabeth Watson, I will –”

“I just want you to braid my hair!”

He was so going to kill Harry when she got back. “Fine. Hang on.” Once he’d located a reasonable tutorial, he scanned the directions and turned to his niece, flexing his fingers. “Let’s do this.”

It took about twenty seconds for him to regret this whole deal. The first time he grabbed at her hair the wrong way, Sophie screeched and jumped, acting for all the world like he was torturing her.

“Relax! Christ, you’re fine, I’m sorry I hurt you!”

“Stop pulling it!”

“I have to pull it if I’m going to braid it!”

“You don’t have to _pull_ it, you could just... braid it!”

“I’m _trying_ , aren’t I?”

“You may have chosen an extremely inconvenient location for this display,” said a deep voice. Well, nobody asked _him._ John said as much as he wrestled with a hair elastic. The voice continued, “Hmm. Very inconvenient.”

“Yeah, well, why don’t you try braiding her hair then?” John muttered irritably. “Six-year-old girls are impossible.”

“This is true.”

Mid-braid, John finally turned around and looked at the speaker.

And almost fainted.

“Attractive” did not remotely _begin_ to describe the man. He was all cheekbones and gorgeous eyes and curly dark hair and a slightly crooked, very amused smile. He was also holding the hand of a young girl, who was eyeing John suspiciously.

“May I recommend that you move to the side,” the stranger said. “The teenage couple behind you is about to break up. One-sided, as these things typically go. A typical high school scandal: infidelity, too much partying, and lack of communication. Perhaps a few incriminating Snapchats, though we haven’t the time to suss that particular detail out. The young woman will no doubt pitch a fit – she is prone to histrionics, after all – and I recommend you duck out of the way should drinks be thrown, and should you wish to protect your daughter from exposure to what will no doubt be untoward language.”

John could only gape and struggle to breathe.

“I’m not his daughter,” Sophie protested.

The man’s gaze flickered briefly to her and back again to John. “It would be prudent to heed my advice.”

“He’s never wrong,” put in his... daughter? Niece? Charge?

Somehow John convinced his legs to cooperate and followed the stranger to a park bench next to the cafe.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

They shook hands, John making a valiant effort not to stare.

“And you are...?”

“John Watson,” Sophie supplied helpfully when her uncle failed to respond. “He used to be a doctor for soldiers, but he got hurt.”

“I am aware.”

She frowned. “How?”

“He deduced,” the little girl said. “I’m Alice,” she added, smiling at John. “Sherlock’s my dad.” Charisma and outgoingness was evidently a genetic thing.

“Right, yeah,” John said. He cleared his throat, then managed, “This is my niece, Sophie.”

“Are you in Ms. Olsen’s class?” asked Alice of Sophie.

“No, Ms. Gooding’s. Are you?”

“I’m in second grade, but I’m six and a half. I skipped a year.” Of course she had. She struck John as abnormally poised and aware for her age, which, once again, could probably be attributed to genetics. Sherlock’s gaze was piercing into John, intense enough to make him uncomfortable.

“You have a brother. Alcoholic, yes? Recently split from his wife, Clara. He –”

“Stop it,” John said, more sharply than he’d intended. Sherlock flinched. “It’s just, Sophie’s right here and –”

“No, it’s perfectly understandable,” Sherlock said quickly. “It was inappropriate of me.”

“He does that a lot,” Alice told Sophie in a stage whisper. “Mom always says he may be the cleverest man in the country but he still doesn’t know social cues.”

_Mom._ John’s heart sank involuntarily and he mentally slapped himself. _Get it together._ “That’s... interesting.”

Sherlock’s eyes were still fixed on him. He willed himself not to squirm.

“Well, we’d better get going –”

Right on cue, the teenage girl that Sherlock had “deduced” earlier started screaming.

“You were right,” said John. “Amazing.”

Sherlock smiled. “I always am.”

“One time he was wrong, when he was a lot younger. He miscalculated something at the lab and accidentally killed the specimens,” Alice informed Sophie.

“You do love bringing that up,” Sherlock said annoyedly. “Alice, as you are well aware, I had gone thirty-eight hours without sleep or food at that point. I’d very much like to see you attempt to count to ten under those conditions, let alone solve one of the most perplexing medical mysteries of the twenty-first century.”

John couldn’t help leaping into doctor mode. “Thirty-eight hours? You’ve got to know that’s not healthy. Please tell me you drank water.”

“No,” Sherlock said, seemingly shocked at the mere notion. “I almost never drink. Transport is unimportant.”

“He’s a workaholic,” Alice explained.

“Uncle John used to be. Now he mopes around and watches TV all day.”

“Not _all_ day,” John protested, elbowing his niece.

“Well, when he’s not sleeping, I mean.”

Alice looked at him critically. Jesus Christ, he didn’t want to know how scary Sherlock’s wife must be. “It’s probably letdown after the war.”

“That’s probably why he cries at night,” Sophie mused.

“That’s not true,” John said loudly. Sherlock was oddly silent, but continued staring at him. “It’s not,” said John, feeling his face get hot, “it’s not true.”

“My uncle never cries. He’s very stoic.”

“He’s also the bane of my existence, and far too cocky for anyone’s good.”

“I like him.”

“Because you are a fool, and because he shares his cake with you.”

“He always offers you some.”

“I would _never_ accept cake from that man,” Sherlock said derisively. “He is an abomination to the –”

“We’d better get going,” John said. “I have a meeting.”

“Of course.” Sherlock inclined his head politely, though he seemed... off. Abruptly subdued in comparison to the start of their supremely confusing interaction. “Well.”

“I like Sophie,” Alice proclaimed. “Daddy, can we have a playdate?”

“I’m sure it can be arranged. John would have to consent, of course.”

“I... yeah. That’s fine. Um. That works.”

Awkward silence prevailed for a beat before Alice rolled her eyes and said exasperatedly, “That’s when you give him your number, Mr. Watson.”

“Oh. Yes. Have you got a...?” Sherlock wordlessly produced a pen and a pad of paper. He scribbled down his number. “Please, call me John.”

Alice beamed. “Delightful.” _Delightful?_ Who _was_ this six-year-old?

“Well then.” John coughed. “Uh... we’ll see you around.”

“Indubitably,” replied Sherlock. He cast one last, searching look at John before taking Alice’s hand. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” said John, apparently unable to stop watching the man as he strode purposefully through the crowd and entered the parking lot of a sketchy botany shop.

It wasn’t until Sherlock and Alice had already gotten into their car that John remembered.

“Hang on!” he shouted. They both looked up. “How did you know I was an army doctor?”

He could see Sherlock’s answering grin from across the street, but then the car started and he was gone.

+

“You like John,” Alice stated.

“I said no such thing.”

“Your eyes did. You looked at him like he was the best thing ever, better than your mold experiment.”

“Nothing is better than my mold experiment,” lied Sherlock.

“You’re lying.”

Sometimes he wished his daughter was a little less brilliant. When she’d made her first deduction at the age of three and a half, both he and Irene had been less than thrilled. Particularly Irene, who complained about having two Sherlocks in the house. Wyatt, though equally intelligent, was somewhat quieter and less outspoken. Which was good, because Alice, for all her smarts, could be a real handful.

“You got his number. You should text him.”

“Perhaps.”

“You like him.”

“No.”

“You do. You’re in denial.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Sherlock sighed. “If you stop this nonsense right now, I will take you to the American Girl store next weekend.”

Alice gave him a stern look. “You’re bribing me,” she said disapprovingly, then beamed. “But it worked.”

“Hooray,” Sherlock said dryly. “Now. Let’s discuss your math homework.”

“Will you get me ice cream?” she asked hopefully.

“No.”

“You like Jo-ohn,” she said in a sing-songy voice. Obnoxious. _So_ obnoxious.

“I do not!”

“You _looooove_ him. You want to _marry_ him. You think it’s _marvelous_ that he’s an ex army doctor. You –”

“ _Fine,_ ” said Sherlock angrily, and made a U turn towards Dairy Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who commented on my last chapter! I've no idea if this will continue, but I'm hopeful. And I do plan on updating [There's No One Else and ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1704086)[is it me you're looking for?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2383694)!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments/kudos letting me know what you think! I have chapter two already written - here, have a sneak peek:
> 
> “You may have chosen an extremely inconvenient location for this display,” said a deep voice. Well, nobody asked _him_. John said as much as he wrestled with a hair elastic. The voice continued, “Hmm. Very inconvenient.”
> 
> “Yeah, well, why don’t you try braiding her hair then?” John muttered irritably. “Six-year-old girls are impossible.”
> 
> “This is true.”
> 
> Mid-braid, John finally turned around and looked at the speaker.
> 
> And almost fainted.
> 
> “Attractive” did not remotely begin to describe the man. He was all cheekbones and gorgeous eyes and curly dark hair and a slightly crooked, very amused smile. He was also holding the hand of a young girl, who was eyeing John suspiciously.


End file.
